


Sine Metu

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-06
Updated: 2010-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rescuing Dean Winchester from Hell took its toll on everyone involved. For the prompt 'claustrophobia.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sine Metu

  
Hell burns cold.

The sentence should be a contradiction, but Hell is, in and of itself, a contradiction: a purely metaphysical place that exists, simultaneously, countless miles beneath the crust of the Earth itself…and nowhere at all. It cannot be found unless you are taken there.

Castiel lost count of the number of demons he bribed, threatened, and, ultimately, mutilated in order to gain access to Hell. Every angel in his garrison was required to do their part, but it was Castiel who was most determined. Castiel, who was fiercest. Castiel, who grew from a footsoldier to a warlord in the span of a few short years. He led the charge on the gates of Hell, battered them down with his Grace, it was _he_ who was at the forefront when they battled their way towards the Righteous Man's soul.

Unprotected by the swarm of his Brothers, he had witnessed the horrors of Hell firsthand, as only humans and demons had done before. He had felt the frozen fire lick at his wings, sheering away at his Grace. He had pushed through the fabric of that place as it threatened to close around him, dark and rife with the smell of brimstone and hate and despair. He had feared that he would suffocate, long before he ever reached Dean Winchester. It was a fear that he had been unable to cast aside, even after he had pulled Dean's soul up from the Pit, even after he had carefully remade the man's body from scraps of his own Grace.

"Cas?"

Castiel closes his eyes. Opens them again. The rudimentary act of blinking – it is not necessary, but he finds that it soothes the people who interact with him. Dean has explained that people become uncomfortable when he stares.

"You okay, man?"

"I am fine," Castiel says. He is not. Ideally, he would be able to acknowledge his fear. Angels, after all, are not entirely emotionless beings. Fear is hardwired into them. Fear is what allows them to judge when to fight and when to flee. Fear is essential.

"You're hyperventilating in an elevator," Dean says dryly. "I don't think that counts as 'fine.'"

Castiel turns his attention to his vessel, examining it critically. Its breathing is shallow. Faster. Its heart rate is elevated. This is how humans express fear, he realizes. Through simple, biological processes. Not through anything so complicated as the sharing of Grace.

He feels Dean's hand fall upon his shoulder. It squeezes.

"You need to stop that," Dean says. He sounds…concerned? Castiel is a very poor judge of tone. Dean has told him this more than once. His inability to recognize sarcasm, however, is the least of his troubles. His heart rate is not slowing. The elevator continues to crawl towards the top floor of the office building. There are fifty-seven floors precisely. They are currently on floor two.

Castiel feels his vessel break out into a fine sweat. Another fear response. He knows, logically, that it is a response to his memories of Hell. The cold fire. The damned souls. The feeling of that awful place closing in on him, threatening to smother his Grace with his Fallen Brother's hate and anguish.

"You're gonna give yourself a heart attack," Dean says. Castiel swallows. His vessel's throat feels thick.

"Unlikely. This body is in good physical condition."

Dean opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Fear gibbers at the edges of Castiel's Grace, demanding that he flee this small, confined metal box. He does not need to ride the elevator with Dean. He can just as easily fly to the top floor, he does not need to be _ferried_ there.

Dean's hand moves from his vessel's shoulder, drifting down over the forearm.

"Okay," Dean mutters. "If you tell Sam I did this, I will deny it until my dying day, do you understand?"

"Deny what?"

And then Dean is kissing him. A kiss is often an attempt to encourage intimacy of a different nature. Kissing is a prelude to sexual intercourse. But Castiel has also seen mothers kiss their children, he has seen best friends kiss each other on the cheek…He has even observed humans kissing their pets, although generally not with quite the same amount of enthusiasm as Dean is currently applying.

And Dean, Castiel realizes, is also significantly more sexually appealing than a dog or a cat. Castiel knows his body, he built it from the soul up, but he had not realized Dean's mouth was quite that soft. He had not realized that his vessel's stubble would catch against Dean's skin, against his lips. He had not noticed, before, that the intense green of Dean's eyes is almost the exact color of a still pond in summer, the water warm and full of living things.

He notices, now. He catalogues the differences between them – it might be useful, in the future. Dean is slightly taller than Castiel's vessel, he is broader in the chest and shoulders, and his legs bowed. He smells like gun oil and sweat and hotel soap. Castiel's vessel smells like rosemary and a cinnamon candle, the last things that Jimmy Novak had been in contact with, preserved forever by Castiel's Grace.

Dean is cool, where Castiel is hot. Several degrees hotter, in fact. Dean does not appear to disapprove – he pushes one thigh between the knees of Castiel's vessel, gently coaxing the unfamiliar lips open. Castiel holds on, because he cannot think of anything else to do. He does not know how to kiss someone. He does not know if Dean _wants_ to be kissed, or if this is just yet another strange, contrary human behavior that he was previously unaware of, and is now expected to ignore.

Slowly, Dean leans backwards, and takes his thigh with him. Castiel is left pushed flush against the back of the elevator, confused and unsure. He reaches up to touch his vessel's lips. They are swollen, and sensitive to the touch.

"So," Dean says, cheerfully enough. "Feel better?"

Castiel mentally reviews his vessel and has to admit that, while its heart rate has not gone down, its breathing has slowed to normal, and the fear that had been clawing at him is absent.

The fact that his vessel is also intensely aroused is inconsequential. He ignores it.

"Yes," he says, bizarrely, absurdly grateful, and unsure of how to show it. "Thank you," he continues, after a moment, because he believes that that is what one would call 'a start.'

"No problem," Dean says. The elevator _pings_, and the doors open. They have reached the fifty-seventh floor. "Just…like I said, don't tell Sammy. He'll go all gay pride on me, and the last thing I need is him sticking a fuckin' rainbow flag on the bumper of my baby."

Castiel nods, although he does not understand the significance of the rainbow flag. Dean gives him a long look, a searching look, although Castiel is not sure what he is searching for. Then, with a grunt, he exits the elevator, stance slightly more bow-legged than usual.

After a moment, Castiel follows him.


End file.
